


Promise of the Needle

by DrumMerica



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 3, Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Art, Blood, Drugs, Eternal Life, Ethics, Fallout, Fighting, Gen, Immortality, Insanity, Morals, Psychopath, Science, Story, middleman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 11:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7842625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrumMerica/pseuds/DrumMerica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Sole Survivor, against Lorenzo Cabot's wishes, gave the Mysterious Serum to another wastelander?</p><p>And what if that wastelander was the psychopathic artist, the Pickman?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise of the Needle

**Author's Note:**

> (Takes place in the universe of Fallout 4, after completing Lorenzo Cabot's questline (saving Lorenzo's life and killing his family) and starting right at the end of the quest "Pickman's Gift."
> 
> Please leave constructive criticism! Thank you =)

Pickman grinned. “Are you blood type O, by chance? It’s the most compatible type. Whatever you are, it’ll blend very nicely on the canvas.”

“Oh God, I’ll give you anything...anything!” Nate shouted. Straddling down on him like a passionate lover, the Pickman laughed, his knife pirouetting the flesh of the Sole Survivor’s neck. Pricks of blood bloated in it’s wake.

“What do you have to give me that I can’t take when you die?” Pickman asked before pausing. “Hmph. Killing and stealing. That would make me no better than a raider, I suppose. Alright, you’ve convinced me. I will hear out your plea.”

Nate spoke frantically, haphazardly. “Caps, weapons...whatever you want! I’m sorry for attacking you! I killed the raiders too, isn’t that enough?”

“Not even close, my friend.” An eager smile wrought across Pickman’s face as he pressed the cutting edge of the steel against the neck. His voice was upbeat, timid, and friendly--utterly terrifying. “What I want is your blood.”

“ _ Wait _ !” the Sole Survivor shouted. He took a moment to align his thoughts, staring off into the grim, bearded face above him, trying to ignore the sweat--or maybe tears--blurring his eyes. Finally, as the echoes of his screams ceased resonating and he managed to control his breath, he spoke again. “How...how would you like to live forever?”

Pickman arched his brows. “You’re not turning me into a damn ghoul.” He pushed the blade harder.

“No,  _ no! _ Not a ghoul, definitely not a ghoul. You’ll be a human, see...an immortal human, and all you have to do is take a shot every now and then.”

What seemed at first to be a sarcastic joke now piqued the Pickman’s interest. He spoke professionally, as cordially and calmly as a synth might, but with the warmth and tone of a human. “Okay, you’ve bought some time.” Pickman eased his knife from Nate’s neck. “Please, elaborate.”

“I know this man, he...he’s over four hundred years old. His blood, there’s something in it. I’m not sure what, you see, .but he can extract it, and injecting it into your own blood stops aging.”

Pickman smiled, but whether out of delight or sleighted sarcasm, Nate could not tell. “Like the fountain of youth?”

“Sort of, I guess,” Nate replied. “But you need me alive for it. He doesn’t give it out to just anyone. Only me.”

The Pickman’s smile vanished. He pressed the blade harder, the cold kiss of steel shuddering Nate’s skin. “Only to you, huh? Sounds like a ploy to stay alive if you ask me. Tell me, would you like a Bostonian sunset or a pack of dogs painted with your blood?”

Nate screamed. “ _ Please, for the love of God, I'm not lying! _ ” Even this caused Pickman to flinch. Nate took a brief moment to collect himself, then continued quickly, “Lorenzo, that's his name. And I helped him escape his prison where he was kept for hundreds of years, so he gives me this serum. But only one at a time, and only to me. You have to believe me.”

Nate struggled in vain to wrestle free of Pickman’s grasp. But such a large man he was, and frightening enough to tranquilize a being with simply his look. The cool, collected demeanor of his face made it seem as if he was merely enjoying a book, and not holding a man against his will with a knife to their neck. For a few moments, Nate and Pickman staring at each other, locked in time as if they were in a painting themselves, as Pickman considered the proposal. “ _ If  _ I were to let you go--heavy,  _ heavy  _ emphasis on  _ if _ \--how often can you deliver this serum to me?”

“Once, maybe twice a month? I don’t know. If he finds out I’m giving it away, he said he’d stop giving it to me.”

“Once a week,” Pickman replied. “And if you fail to deliver, I will find you and I will cut off your limbs. You’ll watch, armless and legless, as I paint a masterpiece with your blood. And you shall be my first living sculpture.”

“I’ll fucking deliver!” Nate exclaimed with exasperation. Pickman smiled. Over the course of his career as an artist, he knew men, in times of desperation, would agree to anything to keep themselves alive, and just how often they did not keep to those agreements. Most of these men did not live long. If Nate had made any other petty offer in exchange for life, Pickman would have slit his throat and be done with it. But eternal life?  _ Imagine all the art I can create,  _ Pickman thought, smiling internally.

With a sigh and a cool, reserved smile, Pickman relieved his knife from the Nate’s neck. The flesh, prickled with blood like goose bumps and slightly indented from the pressing of the blade, rose back into place. Immediately Nate’s hands shot to the area and massaged it, making sure it was alright. He jumped to his feet and backed away from Pickman. “You’ll bring the first delivery tomorrow,” Pickman said, caressing his hands across the steel blade.

“Okay, okay,” was the reply. Nate turned to barrel up the stairs, but the Pickman stopped him.

“Oh, and hey--let me repay you. When you visit my house again, look deep within my painting, Picnic for Stanley, and you will find my gratitude.”

Nate waited to make sure Pickman was finished. Then he charged up the stairs and out of sight. Pickman could hear the front door to his gallery swing open and slam shut.

The building became quiet. Pickman went up to his gallery, relaxed into a sofa, and closed his eyes.  _ Eternal life. What beautiful art I will divine. _

***

The stench of decay and innards wrought the noses of Paladin Ross and Knight Delry as they passed through the doorway. A sickening, burning acid bubbled up Knight Delry’s throat, but he forced it back down. Paladin Ross, having a stomach of stronger mettle, scanned the room. Paintings hung on the walls, all composed of red, yellow, and black colors against white canvas. One of them depicted a man with blood rushing from the place where his jaw once was. Another presented a man with his eyes gouged out and those eyes floating on either side of his head.  _ Earrings? _ “This looks like the place,” she said.

“This is fucked,” Delry responded. “You don’t think this guy  _ actually _ managed to take down two knights in full power armor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ohh, I wanna hurl. Do you...do you think he  _ actually _ paints these pictures with people’s blood?”

“Silence, Delry,” Ross said, her T-51 power armor creaking and crunching as she turned to look at him. Even though Delry wore the same bulk of protective metal, she could still see the weakness, the fear, in his quivering eyes and shackled frame. “Mind you, the man we’re looking for lives within these walls. He’ll hear us if you keep yapping so loudly.”

Delry cast his head down. “Understood.”

“Eyes open, gun primed and ready.” In her hands was her favorite laser rifle, named Andy. When asked about the name’s origin, she would explain it’s in honor of her brother, whom she lost to raiders at a young age. What she meant by  _ lost _ is that he up and left the family to join a raider group. Only months later did she see him again, when he came down with his friends to visit the farm. He got a homecoming gift of a fusion round to the chest from none other than Ross herself. Ross carried that laser rifle ever since.

Slower than a legless ghoul, they combed the rooms, weapons always pointed in the direction they looked. There was a foreboding quiet surrounding them, the only sounds emanating being that of their power-armored feet thudding across the wooden floor. It was the kind of quiet that hid secrets in it’s pockets of silence. The building’s interior was much like any other bombed out building--litter scattered like grass, rusted and torn odds and ends sitting on shelves, in cabinets, and so on. It would have been virtually indistinguishable from any other wasteland ruin, except for the bodies.

The first deceased raider they came across did not frighten terribly. He simply lay across a kitchen counter, arms outstretched, like he was falling. 

“This guy doesn’t look too bad,” Delry said.

They walked upstairs, always weary, always listening intensely into the dead silence, anticipating it. Many rooms occupied the floorspace. Many bodies did, too. The next one they found had his arms hacked away, frayed nerve endings hanging from musty-smelling stumps, and the blood drained into buckets on either side. Dried splotches of red leaked down the sides of his mouth.. His teeth were caved in, and the jaw hung loosely, like a flag with no wind.

“Oh,” Delry said.

Each room proved to be much the same as the last. Ross could feel her heartstrings pulling tighter with each tortured body they found. The miasma of blood and shit clouded her sensory intake. Each room sickened the two Brotherhood soldiers farther. As horrifying as it was, Ross was determined to keep herself held together. The last thing they needed was for her to have a panic attack, which would likely cause Delry to have one, too. 

Then there was that creeping, nagging fear. That feeling of two silent, insane eyes pressing into you, fantasizing about how your blood will look against the canvas, what he might paint with it. Knowing _he_ lived within these walls, to share the same space as a man as cruel and vile as him--it would be foolish to not be afraid. He could be watching at any time, from some hole in the wall, or from shadowed corners in the room. _Pickman, you abomination_ , Ross thought. _Show yourself, make a noise, anything._ _I will end you._

As their eyes beared down on another dismembered raider, Delry broke the empty silence with quickly-spoken whispers. “Did...did Elder Maxson say anything else about this guy, other than he paints with the blood of raiders?”

Ross almost replied, but hesitated. She could have told him how this Pickman character  not only targeted raiders, but apparently wastelanders, too. At first these random, sudden disappearances were attributed to the Institute. But people rethought that theory when frightening paintings, much like the ones plastered to the walls here, were posted to the door of the victim’s home days later. _The Pickman_ , they were signed. The victims came from as far away as Goodneighbor and even Diamond City, the supposed safe haven of the Commonwealth. Ross could have told him all of these things. But sense caught her, and she could already feel the tension that practically strangled Delry’s heart. “I don’t know anything else. All we need to know are that Maxson’s orders are to kill on sight.”

Up a flight of stairs took them to another hallway filled with dilapidated rooms, much the same as the one’s before. After a clean and sweep of the area, they marched back down to ground floor and headed into the basement. Their footsteps were the only noises in the entire building. Hearing the heavy, thick thomps of their feet vibrate through the walls, and that being the only noise at all, was maddening. The silence was maddening. Everything about Pickman was maddening. Sweat covered Ross in a warm sheet underneath her power armor. Still, she had to remain confident and strong. If not for herself, at least for Delry. “How are you?” she asked as they descended the basement staircase.

“F-fine, I guess. Ready to get the hell...oh my...oh, my…”

Down the stairs lead to a large room with a large pit. In front of the pit was a platform raised perhaps two feet off of the ground. It was drenched in red. Paint cans clustered around it, as well as brushes, tools, and a large, blank canvas. Ross and Delry came closer and looked down into the pit. A stench like all the fecal matter in the world rose up to greet them, and a pile of bodies, arms, legs, ribcages, and so forth occupied below. Pained, tortured faces could be found among the heap of flesh and bone.

Delry ripped off his helmet and turned to the side, vomiting. Ross slammed her eyes shut and simply looked the other direction, stepping away slowly as if pushed backwards by some terrifying force. “God,” she whispered.  _ This can’t be real. So many bodies… _

There was no denying it now. Hysteria burned through Paladin Ross’s veins like venom. She felt her eyes getting blurry, her legs weakening and frame shackling under the fright.  _ And the silence. Oh God, the world is noiseless except for my footsteps.  _ Black thoughts consumed her. All she could think of doing was getting the fuck out and back to safety on the Prydwen, away from the Commonwealth, away from Pickman and his mad house of bloodshed and horror. “Delry,” she said between light-headed pants, “let’s get the fuck out. Let’s…”

Ross turned her head to where Delry was standing. Except Delry was not standing. He was lying facedown on the ground. A gash on the padded neck of his power armor trailed blood onto the ground. 

“DELRY!” 

Above him was the Pickman, a bloody knife with serrated edges in his hand. And he was walking towards her.

Ross raised Andy to her shoulder and fired. A glowing red beam burst from the tip and found a mark right at his heart. She fired three more times in frantic succession, each strike landing in the same spot. Pickman did not stumble over and die, did not falter or even so much as flinch. He walked ever closer, the knife dripping blood, his boot clicks filling her ears.

She fired again and again. Some shots went awry, others hit him. None seemed to bother him much. Pickman looked down at his clothes and fingered the burnt craters where the laser beams hit him. “You’ve ruined my suit,” he said. Then he took a step closer.

Ross screamed. She pulled Andy’s trigger, and nothing happened. Pickman was five feet away. Her mind was swaying like she had a hangover, and her stomach felt just as horrible. Pickman drew his knife up, preparing to strike. Ross grabbed Andy by the handle and swung. She expected to make full contact with his skull, perhaps bashing it open in the process. But his hand snapped up and stopped it with unbelievable strength. It almost felt like a concrete wall stopped her in full swing. “Now, now,” he said, practically staring into her fear-drenched eyes through the power armor’s helmet. 

And then she felt the bite of cold steel enter her neck. It was a sudden, sharp pain, and it seemed to travel across her throat with each passing second. She yelped and fell to a knee, struggling for breath as she struggled to suck it down. The word dizzied around her, and soon she was swaying. With a clattering crash, she fell to the ground. Black swirls began flooding her eyesight. “Delry, h-help…”

“I am sorry to say, but Delry will not be able to help you.” Pickman stood over her, speaking in a tone as gleeful as a kid on Halloween. “But, oh, think of the lovely art you two will make.”

Ross closed her eyes, trying to aim Andy at her attacker. When she pulled the trigger, nothing happened. Defeated, her arm collapsed to the ground, and Andy fell with it.

***

“It’s...remarkable, how resilient the human condition is,” Lorenzo Cabot said, pouring two glasses of brandy from his seat at the coffee table. 

Nate stood at the doorway, staring uncomfortably at the man. As always, Lorenzo wore that pressed black suit and archaic metal crown that made him look like a mind-controlled alien out of some old comic book. “I’m sure it is,” he responded, reluctantly coming to accompany the four-hundred year old man on the couch.

“Even in their final moments, the people I capture are begging and pleading for their lives. In the face of certain death, they still see hope. Is it because they believe me impressionable? Or because they simply refuse to believe their existence is over? But that's all just mentality, I suppose, not really the condition I’m talking about. These ghoul people...if you take skin grafts from them and compare it to that of regular humans, you’d find it wondrously similar in basic DNA structure. Advanced and even adapted, if you will. I assume it is the radiation that has bred a genetically advanced race of human. This radiation has changed the world in revolutionary ways.” Lorenzo downed his glass, then started pouring more. “I have yet to study how it affects the mind of sentient ghouls. When I manage to collect more subjects, I’ll launch right into that.”

“Hmm,” Nate replied as he swirled his own glass around, peering into the depths of the golden brown liquid within.

“How have you been, Nate? The serum treating you well? You look as strong as an ox.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah...strong, alright.” Silence fell over the soft blue painted room. Nate sipped the brandy. Here was the part he hated asking. A favor with an ostensible, manipulative purpose. “Speaking of the serum, do you think I could get another vial?”

Lorenzo looked shocked. “ _ Another _ vial? Did I not just give you one two days ago? And before that, five days? I sorely,  _ sorely _ hope you are not selling it or giving it to others.”

Nate flushed redder than the wine adorning Lorenzo’s cabinets. “No, no, not at all. You see, I’ve been exploring south of Boston a lot lately, and I’ve found that the serum gives me incredible resistance to radiation.”

“Resistance to radiation? You don’t say.” Lorenzo took a short swig of his cup, genuine interest gleaming in his eyes. “I had not realized my blood to have that effect. Very well. There’s another vial in the dining hall.”

“Thanks,” Nate said, standing up and heading for the stairs. The increased frequency of asking for the serum made him wince every time, as if he were clearly overstepping his boundaries with a friend. But he had no choice. He grabbed the vial and headed back down. “Until next time, Lorenzo,” Nate said as he headed for the door.

“Nate!” Lorenzo said with a warm, pleading tone. “Stay awhile, have some brandy! I have a favor to ask of you.”

_ Oh boy. _ “Of course!” Nate looked at the door. He could feel his body yearning for it, practically leaning in it’s direction. Unfortunately, he would have to wait. He repressed his body’s desire and forced it back into the seat next to Lorenzo. “What is it?”

“You’ve been taking the serum rather frequently in the past few weeks, yes? I imagine  your blood must be experiencing drastic changes similar to the kind mine has undergone. I was wondering if I could draw a sample and examine how it has changed your DNA, as well as any other effects that it might have on you. Like you said, for example, resistance to radiation.”

Nate blinked wildly into his cup of brandy. At that moment, Lorenzo, with that complex crown of gold upon his head, almost looked like a deathclaw--though perhaps more frightening. Nate’s mind suddenly swirled like it had fallen into a vat of Nuka-Cola, and he could feel his heart thumping. “When, uhh...when do you want this blood sample?”

“We could do it right now, if you’d like! Here, let me get the instruments. Don’t move a muscle.” Lorenzo jumped off the couch, fueled by a juvenile sort of excitement.

“Wait!” Nate shouted. Lorenzo froze. Moving a muscle was precisely what Nate planned on doing. Because a blood test would reveal no traces of the serum in his own system. This would lead Lorenzo to assume that he was not using the serum for personal use. Which is the  _ only _ thing Lorenzo said it could be used for. Which meant there would be consequences. Nate was squeamish when it came to needles, anyways.

“I’d love to,” Nate said, jumping to his feet, “but I really do have pressing business to attend to. Until next time.”

As Nate walked towards the door, Lorenzo remained in place, seeming almost to slink over with sudden disappointment. “Alright then. Always good to see you, Nate.”

Nate hurried into the street and away from the Cabot residence with a huge sigh.  _ The next time I come over, he’s going to expect that blood test. _ And what then? Nate remembered very well what Lorenzo did to  _ his own family _ the night they were all reunited _. _ His family imprisoned him for four-hundred years, also lived for hundreds of years thanks to his blood, and gave nothing in return. The reunion was a bloody one.  _ And I am nothing near to a family member to Lorenzo. _ Nate would have to think of something, and quickly.

At the very least, Nate took solace in how Lorenzo and Pickman were both situated in north-east Boston. It was a short walk to Pickman’s Gallery. He normally found the man downstairs, painting on his canvas or preparing a body for the extraction of blood. This time was no different.

“Ah, Nate, so good to see you again,” Pickman said as he heard the old wooden stairs croaking. He was currently working a brush against the canvas. There was a figure in front of him, obviously Pickman’s model for his art. Nate chose not to notice it. He also chose not to notice the weeping or sobs.

“I have your serum,” he said, setting it on the platform that held the canvas. Pickman finally turned to look at him. His pointed blue eyes, immaculately combed hair, and clean tan suit sent shivers through Nate. It was unnerving to so much as see the man anymore. Pickman claimed he was not addicted to the stuff, and yet a sort of intensity shone in his eyes and face. Gaunt he had grown, yet more muscular and intimidating as well. Had Nate the physical prowess to deny the psychopath, he would have. But there was something in the serum that was changing Pickman. Though he was growing leaner, stronger, he still possessed the cunning and intelligent young vigor that made him appear as refined as ever. Nate knew he stood no chance in a fight against the man’s brutal, sinister, and now brawny tactics. Trying to run away would be pointless, too. Pickman proved repeatedly that he strike anywhere, anytime-one minute, robbing citizens out of Diamond City, the next minute planting his calling cards, written on the skin of his victims, around the Atom Cat’s Garage. The extent of his atrocities was growing, and it knew no bounds. Nate shuddered to think of what would happen if he denied Pickman the serum. He also shuddered to think of what would happen if Lorenzo found out what he was actually doing with the it.  _ From one psychopath to the next, I am trapped. _

“Ah, yes, you have my thanks,” Pickman said, delightment staged in his eyes. “I hope you have no plans for stopping our venture anytime soon. Some of those Brotherhood of Steel rats came by last week, and I had no choice but to put them down. I pray they were not sent by you.” Just then, he stopped painting, and without looking away from the canvas, closed his hand around a knife that lay nearby. It was almost as if he was staring  _ into _ the canvas, visualizing something that was not there. “That would be very, very disappointing.”

Nate gulped. “No, no, they didn’t come from me. Probably just informed by someone else.” Gently, Pickman returned to painting. Nate continued with hesitation. “Rumors are going around about you, you know. People are buying guns, building protective measures. Mayor McDonough at Diamond City has doubled the guard duty.”

“What of it?”

“Just saying...you have a target on your back.”

“I appreciate your concern, my friend, but I don’t believe it is necessary.” Pickman flourished his brush with the deft hand of a con artist. “I’ve been wanted ever since I first started painting. It seems that people don’t appreciate good art when they see it.”

“Yeah.” A pause. Sobs and whimpers that Nate chose to ignore filled the silence as he prepared for another grueling question. “If it’s not too much, Pickman, I have a favor.”

“I don’t do commissions for free.”

“What? No, no, that’s not it. You see, you’ve been taking that serum for a while now, and it looks like it’s causing radical changes to your body. I was wondering…,” Nate spoke confidently. He always hated lying. Before this whole situation, he did not even know he had it in him to tell a lie. “if, maybe I could get a blood test from you? Then I could examine your DNA, and maybe find ways to enhance the serum, and stuff.”

Pickman didn’t reply immediately. Nate was painfully aware of a voice crying “help me”  between battered sobs, but kept his gaze fixed on Pickman. Finally, he replied. “You said you get this serum from another man’s blood, yes?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why don’t you perform a blood test on him, then?”

Nate opened his mouth, but words tripped in his throat. “Well, he’s not a good candidate for the test because, well, the serum  _ comes _ from him, you see. With you, I could review how it affects a completely separate individual. He’s the control, and you’re the experiment, if you want to look at it that way.”

“Unneccesary,” Pickman replied, never taking his eyes from the canvas. “I am much too busy to submit to a blood test. Nor will I allow my own blood to be spilled, unless it’s for a painting. You’ll have to ask the other man.” Nate almost pleaded further, but Pickman spoke again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must focus to capture this painting the way I visualize it.”

“Oh, yeah...of course, don’t let me keep you.” Nate headed back up the stairs, thankful to leave Pickman--as well as the source of those sobs and whimpers--behind.

_ If Pickman won’t give me a blood sample, then I am screwed. _ When Nate got out into the bomb-ravished, time neglected street outside Pickman’s Gallery, he leaned against a building and fell to the ground. The sun hovered just over the horizon.  _ Caught between two killers, with no way out, and a web of lies holding it all together. What do I do? _

***

The agency’s metal door creaked open. Both Nick Valentine and Ellie Perkins reached for their holsters, but thankfully, it was none other than Nate, the sole survivor of Vault 111, that stepped inside. They relaxed their hands. Nick smiled. “Nate! So good to see you again. We were just about to close up shop. How have you been?”

“Great,” Nate replied. His smile was a fake one, and it seemed as though Nick saw through it immediately. 

“What’s going on? Something troubling ya?”

Nate spoke gravely, as if Pickman might be able to hear him from the office in Diamond City. “I need your help.”

“Here, take a seat,” Nick said, gesturing towards the chair in front of his desk. He slipped a piece of paper through his typewriter and placed his fingers on the keys. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Nick typed as Nate recalled the tale. He spoke of his first encounter with Pickman, the deal they made, and how Pickman used the strength the serum gave him to carry out his attacks. He spoke of Lorenzo’s request for a blood test, and the problems that caused. “...and Pickman is getting every drop of that serum. If Lorenzo get his blood test and finds out I’m not taking it, he’ll kill me. If I stop delivering it to Pickman, he’ll torture me, kill me, and paint a picture with my blood. I’d try to stop them, but they’re both capable killers who could rip my neck off with one hand.  _ One of them is going to kill me _ .” Nate was nearly in tears. “Nick, I don’t know what to do.”

Nick stopped typing long before that point, leaving the room in dead silence. Ellie Perkins stood in the corner, hands covering her mouth and pure dread in her eyes. The electric bulb overhead hummed with oppression. “Let me get this straight,” Nick said. “This...Pickman. He is the one killing people in Diamond City, and it’s because you’re muleing him this...this serum made of blood?”

“Yes,” Nate said. The word felt as painful as a dagger in his chest. “But Lorenzo, the guy who the serum comes from, is killing people, too. Though he’s doing it to study them.”

“And now you’re in a bad place because Pickman uses the serum, but Lorenzo thinks you are?”

“Yes. And he wants me to do a blood test, which if I do, he’ll realize I don’t have a drop of that stuff in me.”

Nick rocked back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. “My God, Nate, sounds like you should’ve gone to the Gunners.”

“I  _ need _ your help, Nick. Now more than ever. I saved you from Skinny Malone, now you gotta save me from Lorenzo and Pickman.”

“Last time I checked, Malone was just a small time gangster, not a psychotic artist or a four-hundred year old madman.” He sighed. “I guess the desk job does get a little cramped after a while. Could use some fresh air.” Nick shook his head in disbelief. “Alright, Nate, I’m with you.”

“Are you mad, Nick?” Ellie asked sternly from the corner of the room, voice ringing with an angry tremor. “Did you hear a  _ word  _ of what he said? You take this case, you’re going to die!”

“I know he’s in the deep, Ellie, but-”

“But you’re still going to do this.” 

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you thought the same thing when you got caught by Malone and his crew. Look how that ended up!”

“And then Nate came along and rescued me. Him and I, we make a good team.” Ellie opened her mouth, but no words came out. “You’ve gotta trust me,” Nick continued. Ellie did not reply. Without sparing another look at either of them, she swung open the door and stormed out of the agency. It slammed with an unsettling crash.

Nate felt awkward in the silence that followed. “You don’t...you don’t think she’ll tell anyone what I said, will she?” he asked.

“No, not Ellie. She’s just angry that I’m putting myself in harm’s way. Always worried about me.” Nick rocked forward in his chair and reached into a desk drawer. Out came his metal pipe revolver, a machination of thrown together parts that somehow made a functioning weapon. And a decent one, at that. “What’s the plan, Nate?”

Nate smiled. Having the detective at his side lifted a weight off his chest. “First we have to take out Pickman. Then we get Lorenzo.”

Nick chuckled. “That’s the  _ idea _ , but what’s the  _ plan _ ? Just gonna waltz in there and fill them with lead?”

“We’ll improvise when the time comes.”

Nick could not help but smile. “I like the way you think, kid. When should we strike?”

Nate took a moment in thought. “Tomorrow at dawn. Before either of them are awake, but early enough not to fall into any traps or raiders along the way. I’ll be here ready to go before then.”

“Tomorrow at dawn, I’ll see you then, Nate.” Nick tilted his hat as he watched the Vault Dweller walk out the door. With a sigh, he threw his feet up on the desk, leaned back, and closed his eyes.  _ Some crazy world, this is. _ Nick guessed Nate would probably go to his setup in Hangman’s Alley for rest and preparation. When the first signs of light show their illuminance, they’ll be off to end the lives of two men scourging the wasteland.

***

“The  _ Vault Dweller _ is behind this?” Mayor McDonough said, his chin sinking into the rolls of his neck with disbelief.

“He’s behind the psychopaths who’re doing  _ all  _ of it,” Ellie replied. Her tone’s ire demanded complete cooperation. “And now he’s got Nick wanting to go on this fool’s errand with him.”

“How do they expect to kill  _ two _ psychopaths?” the Mayor asked. He stood up, leaned over his desk and shook his head. “This, this is madness. Nick shouldn’t be getting entwined with criminals like Nate. By God, these psychos are worse than the Institute.”

“We have to stop them, Mayor. Nick can’t die. Not covering the Vault Dweller’s ass.”

“Has he left the city yet? Guards!” Suddenly, a man wearing baseball padding and helmet burst into the room. “If the Vault Dweller hasn’t left Diamond City yet, stop him!”

The guard bustled out of the room and shouted down to the men below, far enough away that it’s message fell undecipherable to McDonough’s ears. A moment passed, then another shout came in reply. The guard walked back into the room. “He left already. Not sure which way he went.”

“ _ Shit _ ,” McDonough whispered, gently patting his palms against the desk. He slumped up to his feet and walked over to the huge glass window, which held a lovely vista of Diamond City. There he stood, thinking. “How do we get him now? He could be anywhere in Boston by the time the night’s over.”

Ellie sat in front of his desk, her nails practically clawing into the wooden armrests. It was beyond frustrating that Nate had already escaped. But then an idea popped into her mind. Suddenly she was on her feet, reaching onto the Mayor’s desk and reaching for a piece of paper. Her hand found a pencil and she began scribbling like she had a seizure in her arm.

“What are you writing?” the Mayor asked, turning around.

“A message,” she replied.

***

“Uhh, wait, what?” Faint whispers in the background. “Oh, okay.” Papers shuffling, then the sound of Travis clearing his throat. “Okay, umm, so, I have evidence here that says, uhh, the Vault Dweller, he’s, well...responsible for the Pickman killings. My confidential informant, she, I mean  _ they _ , uhh, mean to tell me they heard from the Vault Dweller’s mouth himself that, ahh, he’s been supplying Pickman with, with a serum that gives him strength and... _ immortal life _ ?” Travis said, the last two words coming out in a nervous squal. “Under these accusations, the, uhh, our Mayor McDonough is offering a four-hundred cap bounty if he’s, ahh...taken alive. And, uhh, four-hundred caps for the heads of  Lorenzo, or Pickman, both of which, umm, live in north-east Boston. Now, the Ink Spots with...”

Lorenzo turned the radio off. His sudden absence of mind caused the scotch on his tongue to burn, the same way leaving a pan on the stove does. He swallowed painfully, the tingling dryness prickling him all the way down. For a moment, he only sat there, wallowing in disbelief.  _ Don’t sell it, or give to anyone _ , Lorenzo recalled.  _ Those were my exact instructions. And now, my serum has fallen into the hands of a serial killer.  _  His cheeks curled into a gnarly, angered scowl, and his eye burst into fire with more pain than his tongue just had. Then he stood up. “Nate, Nate, Nate,” Lorenzo whispered, placing the ancient crown atop his head, “you disappoint me.”

***

“Damn,” Pickman said, setting his brush down and viewing his most recent work. A mangled body with feet sewn at the arms, arms sewn at the feet, and the head crying and screaming all the while. It looked just like the real thing. He clicked the radio off. Pained, bubbling breaths and whimpers from his model’s mouth now the only noise. “You hear that, Nate?” he said, looking out and beyond the confines of his basement ceiling to something above, something unseen. “Sounds like you slipped up. Which means they’re coming for me.” He picked up his knife and cleaned the blood off with a rag. “Which means I’m coming for you.”

***

“You  _ what? _ ” Nick shouted, his grizzly, no-shit voice piercing loudly enough that the Upper Stands Bar could probably hear him. Ellie slid back harshly against the door. “Let me get this straight. You put a bounty on Nate’s head for the  _ entire _ wasteland to hear, as well as the location of these psychopaths in an effort to  _ protect  _ me?”

“I’m doing this world a service,” Ellie remarked with clear indignance.

“You put a  _ bounty on Nate’s head _ !”

“A little incentive. Things will come out okay. Just give it time.”

Nick Valentine holstered his pipe revolver and shot up from his desk, throwing on his overcoat simultaneously. Something hard and determined set in his eyes as he worked past Ellie for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ellie asked with an iron tenor. “You’re staying here.”

“I’m saving my friend,” Nick replied, angrily, as if it were obvious. He flung the door open and slammed it behind him. The last thing he saw was the scowling, irritated face and crossed arms of Ellie Perkins.

The moon glowed large and white, crowded against the clouds for real estate. Around him, Diamond City lit up in it’s warm, gentle glow. The streets outside--the dark, dilapidated ruins of Boston--would feel much less friendly. Not to mention that two psychopathic serial killers lurked it’s streets and alleyways, not to mention the welfare of Nate now potentially known to everyone in the wasteland  _ including _ those two psychopathic killers, not to mention the bounty on all of their heads. Nick acted cool, indifferent as he passed the city guards. But when the confines of their eyes fell behind him, he jumped into an urgent run just as fast as his synthetic legs would stride. There was a place not terribly far, Hangman’s Alley, where Nate had a small setup. Nick hoped to God that’s where he was.

***

“North-east Boston.” Lorenzo sipped the last drops of scotch out of his cup. Bristles like sandpaper ran down his dry throat. He set the cup down and picked up a ten millimeter pistol. “Shouldn’t take too long to find you, Pickman.”

The chilly night air brushed up to meet Lorenzo as he stepped out the door. Empty streets and dead buildings surrounded him on all sides. With an exasperated sigh, he stepped out into the darkness. The world was quiet, unnaturally so, not even the faintest scuffling of mole rats or the quietest moan of ghouls sounding out. Empty too. No rabid dogs, mirelurks, or raiders to be seen. A foreign presence washed over him as he explored, something familiar, but utterly distant. 

And that’s when a memory slowly stole over him, one of his expeditions to Saudi Arabia nearly four centuries ago. It was much different than his expedition now, though in some ways, the same. “Ubar,” he whispered. “Atlantis of the Sands.” 

The air was uncomfortably warm to breath, the sands gulping your feet at every step. For days, dunes stretched out before his team in every direction. Each time his team topped another one, hoping to see something, anything at all, there was slight disappointment in only seeing more of the golden, wind-swept particles.

When Lorenzo’s eyes first beheld Ubar, he nearly cried. Rooftops encrusted in gold and trimmed with ivory gleamed like a beacon in the desert. The expedition proved much quicker after that. His legs could barely keep strength due to unstoppable, buckling laughter.

Sandstone buildings rose up on either side of him. It was a sight he only dreamed of. Ruins of a city, thousands of years old and thought to be only legend, stood before him, silent and empty as the ruins of Boston now stood. Finding the city was enough in itself, let alone what it contained.

The crown. In a large castle’s antechamber, the mysterious relic sat on the ground, apparently fallen from the skull of a man nearby. Lorenzo approached it with wonder glistening in his eyes. Through the thousands of years of dust, it’s golden construction gleamed flawlessly in torchlight. A scarab of what looked to be emeralds sat at it’s crest. Lorenzo picked it up, immediately feeling power surge through his hands and a strong desire to rest it atop his head. It felt even better there.

Despite the guide’s stern protests of taking it back to America, Lorenzo did so anyway. Jack Cabot, his son, said it drove him mad. But here, four hundred years in the future, he stood, not lost but a day’s youth in that time, as strong and healthy as ever. And it was all thanks to the crown.

On that night, Lorenzo did not search the ruins of Boston for another crown, but felt motivated to explore just the same. As angry as he was at Nate and Pickman, this quest had  awakened long dead spirit awakened in him. The forgotten sense of adventure and discovery that came with archaeology aroused him to move faster, see more, let his mind wander.

Nothing lept to his attention that suggested Pickman’s presence. Lorenzo stopped momentarily at a bombed out building with cracked windows and ruined furniture. Ancient skeletons were strewn across the rubble floor, as if paper-thin and blown by the breeze. The building itself lay in shambles. Lorenzo squeezed his fists. _This is why I commanded only you may use the serum, Nate._ _When power falls into the wrong hands, death happens. Violence. Atrocities. And now, there must be retribution._

***

By the time Nick ran all the way to Hangman’s Alley, he was winded as only a synth could be. It was near the outskirts of the city, though still relatively close to Diamond City. He headed through a bombed out building and into an alleyway where a small wooden shack stood. A dog barked and growled when he heard Nick’s footsteps,  but when he saw the detective, the dog ran up to him, tail wagging and tongue lagging.

“Hey there, boy,” Nick said, ruffling the dog’s scalp playfully, resulting in two playful yelps. “Is Nate home?”

The dog barked again and turned to face the shack door. He looked at it proudly. “Good boy,” Nick said.  _ Thank God you came here, Nate. _ He walked towards the door and knocked. 

“Just one minute!” a voice called in return. Nate’s voice. As footsteps rustled inside and grew closer, he glanced at the rooftops and windows, all shrouded in shadows, surrounding them. No one there. At least not yet.

The door opened and Nate emerged from behind. “Nick? What are you doing here?” he said, yawning and stretching. “It isn’t sunrise already, is it?”

“The cat’s outta the bag, Nate. Everyone in the wasteland knows everything you told me. Get your things.”

Nate’s eyes bloated like they were attached to tire pumps. “Ellie.”

“Now’s no time to point fingers. There’s a bounty on your head, and we don’t want to be anywhere near here when the hit squads show up. Or worse, if your two psychotic killers caught wind.”

“Shit,” Nate said in a breathy release. “Where are we going?”

“North-east Boston. Lorenzo and Pickman gotta die  _ now _ , unless you wanna give them time to make a move.”

Nate nodded, then swiveled on his feet back into his shack. His armor and guns sat in a pile on a workbench, but first he ran to slip into his Vault 111 jumpsuit. With anxious eyes and an anxious heart (or what passed for one), Nick turned and watched the alleyway, desperately hoping nobody was already on the move, clamoring to collect the Vault Dweller’s head before the night had hardly begun. It felt like eternities passed as Nate threw together his stuff. Finally, he emerged through the door fully decked in combat armor and with a semi-auto assault rifle in his hands. He threw a nod to Nick. “You ready?”

Nick nodded back, the brim of his fedora momentarily obscuring his eyes. “Like old times, bucko.” They strode off into the cold, deserted streets, guns in hand, and the crows calling above.

***

Unlike the lost city of Ubar, Pickman’s Gallery was not nearly so obscure or hopelessly lost to one searching for it. Raiders laid across the sidewalks and street in front of it. On all of their bodies was a sheet of paper. A painted heart, and above that, the words “Pickman was here. Find me if you dare.”

Lorenzo  _ tssked _ when he read the note. “Don’t dare an archaeologist, Pickman. Finding things is what we do.” As he walked up to the door, he crushed the note and let it fall to the breeze.

The door opened with a creak, and Lorenzo’s slow, tapping footsteps reverberated throughout the rooms. Paintings adorned the walls, all crammed and jostling for real estate. The subject matter of these paintings was slightly off putting, but Lorenzo ignored it. There was a task at hand. The planked floorboards and crusting wallpaper gave the place an unfortunate odor of decay, a scent which Lorenzo did not know in his well-kempt, virtually Pre-War home. There were also hints of dried flesh and blood, something he was more accustomed to.

He headed upstairs, treading lightly, his eyes accounting for the darkness quickly. He soon found the source of the fleshy stench. Bodies filled the upstairs apartments, all grotesquely and painfully morphed--limbs or other parts removed, surgically added to, and so on. For Lorenzo, killing was not out of his nature. But this, _this torture_ _in the name of art_ , was as sordid as it was horrifying. _I should’ve had more scotch_ , he thought, continuing his patrol through the upstairs rooms.

***

“You know, you're kind of like a mule for pre-war drug cartels,” Nick said as they traversed the weed-blotched, rubble blasted concrete. “There’s a dealer and a buyer, and you’re the middleman.”

“I get it, Nick,” Nate replied. “This wasn’t my choice. There was a knife to my throat. And it was by the last person I ever wanted to have a knife there.”

“I know, I know. Not holding against you, though you should’ve done something about this sooner. Lots of people died, you know. Let’s get going.”

They walked on. The frigid air, encased within the city’s metal buildings like a tomb, seemed to have dropped significantly. The duo’s breath misted as they trotted along. “We’re getting close now,” Nate said.

Soon enough, the building stood before them. Even if Nick did not have Nate as a guide, he would have guessed it was the building, due to the bodies that lay scattered across the pavement in front of it. An out of the way, hidden safehouse, no surprise it was the hideout of a serial killer. They walked to Pickman’s front door and stopped before it. Nick and Nate checked their guns, then looked to each other.

“Ready?” Nate asked.

“Let’s do in this crap heap just like we did Eddie Winter.”

Nate grinned, though he felt his nerves twitching and his mind racing. A moment passed, the chilly air reaching up to bluster their clothes and send one last chill through them. Then he opened the door.

Inside, it was quiet. They first came into the gallery room, where more paintings cluttered the walls more than Nate had ever seen before. A sick grimace came over Nick. “My God...these look just like the ones Pickman did to those saps in Diamond City.”

“Don’t go upstairs,” Nate said, shuddering. He had made that mistake before. “Pickman ought to be in the basement. Follow me.”

“If he hasn’t flown the coup already. Lead the way.”

The stairs creaked under their feet, guns pointed, safeties off. The musty basement rose up to meet them, and it’s dirt floor contained red, rusted hints of blood. As always, a canvas stood on the platform, and some cans of paint with a brush to it’s side. A human--or the malformed corpse of one--sat in front, legs and arms jumbled in ways they should not have been. Nothing was much different than how the room normally sat when Nate usually came. Except there was one crucial difference. Nick must have caught the suspicion in his face, because he asked Nate, “Something wrong, other than the dead bodies everywhere?”

“Pickman isn’t here.” Nate turned to Nick, a serious tone squeezing in his throat. “He’s always down here.”

Nick walked over to the canvas and inspected it closely. “Wherever he is, couldn’t of gone far. The, uhh…” Nick sniffed the canvas, “paint is still wet. Probably flew the coop already, afraid it might get too hot,” Nick offered.

A voice called from the staircase. “It seems he would have guessed correctly.” Nick and Nate, startled as a man sharing a room with an albino deathclaw, flung their gun barrels in that direction. There, slowly waltzing down the staircase like he was taking a stroll through the park, was a man in a black suit and black beard. An ornate, large crown of gold on his head.

“Is this the animal?” Nick asked, the grizzly edge in his voice coming out. A gnarly grimace covered his face as he trained his pipe revolver on the man.

“No, this is Lorenzo Cabot,” Nate replied, then with some embarrassment, “The guy I was, uh...getting the serum from. For Pickman.” There was little doubt in his mind as to why Lorenzo was here. 

Lorenzo reached the end of the stairs and gazed over Pickman’s basement as if no one else was there. “So this is Pickman’s hideout, huh? A rather unsettling place. He sticks out to me as a rather feral man.” He looked around. “I see the serum’s strength must have been quite useful to him,” he said, gesturing to two empty suits of collapsed power armor in the corner, blood-stained and torn open. The contempt illustrated his angered brows and cheeks quite clearly.

Nate spoke hastily. “I’m sorry for giving him the serum, Lorenzo, but you have to understand. Pickman, he’s evil. He had a knife to my throat and probably would’ve made me into that,” he pointed to the discombobulated corpse that served as a model for Pickman’s canvas, “unless I gave it to him.”

“And tell me,” Lorenzo said, “you never thought to mention this until now?” He spoke empathetically. “I’m an understanding man, Nate. Four-hundred years locked in an underground prison really mellows a man out. Had you come to me immediately, maybe we could have straightened this out sooner. But how many innocent people died because of your neglect?”

“Don’t try this with me,” Nate said, now angry. “You’ve killed innocent people just the same as he has. Perhaps even more.”

“Ah, but Nate, I do not  _ wish  _ to kill. Nor do I do it for something as petty and useless as  _ art _ ,” he said as if he were cursing, “My work is in the name of science. Human progress. Advancing up and away from this desperate, barbarian society relies on it.”

“Cut the crap, Lorenzo!” Nick clicked the hammer on his revolver. “Killers have been rationalizing their actions since the dawn of time. Far too many lives have fallen to you hands. Now, it’s time to go.”

Lorenzo recoiled and shriveled slightly. Despite his suddenly tense frame, he smiled. “What about your friend Nate? Is he not guilty by association? He  _ freed _ me from my prison. He  _ gave _ my serum to Pickman. If you think about it, he is as responsible for all the death and hysteria as Pickman and I are. Pickman and I, we’ve killed. But Nate-he’s the enabler. His hands wrought death to the innocent.  _ His _ .”

_ His hands wrought death to the innocent,  _ The words made Nate shiver. He recalled a strong, powerless feeling, and a sudden urge in his chest as he remembered watching Shaun, his only son, get kidnapped right in front of him.  _ I’m responsible for all these deaths _ , Nate thought.  _ Had I killed both these men when I had the chance, how many more would be with their wives, husbands, and children right now?  _ Under the hazy, orange lights of the basement, a gleam formed in his eyes. “I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know  _ all this _ would happen. If I could take it all back, I would in an instant.”

Nick spoke much softer now, feeling the added pressure weighing down the room. “This ends now, Lorenzo. I hope you’ve made peace with-”

“Gentlemen!” a voice called out from the pit below, behind a hole in the far brick wall. Cordially slow and professional as ever appeared Pickman. A hearty beard covered his face and a tan suit covered his packed muscles, and amused, devious fire lit up his eyes. “It seems a lot of us were listening to the radio tonight. I ask that we behave civilly, like gentlemen under my roof. No need for violence!”

Nate trained his gun on Pickman. Lorenzo eyed him up, taking in the man, his mannerisms, how the serum had affected him, a thousand things at once. “It looks like you’ve had great success with  _ my _ blood,” he said with a spit, looking at Nate, who looked away quickly.

“Yes, I have to say it’s really unleashed my inner potential. Strength and speed like I’ve never known. Not to mention the halted aging, of course! I thank you, Nate, for your generous contributions.” Pickman walked past the pile of corpses, up the stairs, and joined them on the upper level of the basement. 

Nick never ceased aiming at Lorenzo, nor did he look away from his sights. “I don’t know if you know this, Pickman, but you’re not leaving this room alive. There’s four people in this room, and three of them want you dead.”

“Two of them also want you and your pal Nate, dead. Tell me, do synths bleed? I’ve never considered painting with the fluids of a synth before. What  _ possibilities _ !” Pickman stood at the far side, away from Nate and Nick. He pulled out his knife and wavered it in the air with a fluidity like running water. Lorenzo leaned on the staircase against a wall in between. The air felt tense, friction-filled, like static ions were waiting for the right spark to send them into a frenzy of electric storm. “You don’t want to kill me. If I die, think about all the art--and therefore humanity--that dies with me. For art is the only thing separating humans from the animals beneath us, a man once said. Take that away, and we’re no better than the mirelurks, or the rabid dogs, or deathclaws. Do you imagine the raiders who live in the streets, eating rats and raping and torturing, appreciate art? No, and look at them! We must have the visual media, the written  word, song and dance. The show must go on. And what a long show this future holds-with this serum, a lifelong one. Think about that.  _ An eternal lifetime of art. _ If we can distribute my paintings to the far reaches of the Commonwealth, we’ll march right out of this savage, ruthless wasteland and into a future of proper civilization!”

A cutting cackle came from Lorenzo. “ _ Art _ ? As a means of advancement? You’re a psychopath, Pickman.  _ Science _ is the key to unlocking humanity’s future.”

Pickman giggled silently. “I think we could take a look outside and see just how beneficial  _ science  _ has been for humanity.”

Slowly, like he was on jet, Lorenzo leveled his pistol at Pickman. Nick demanded he stop, but it was as if Lorenzo could not hear. Anger swelled in his eyes and clenched his mouth in a snarl. “You unintelligent, pretentious motherfucker. You know nothing but indulging your own selfish pastimes and trying to rationalize it with some semblance of greater importance. Your art will not feed or clothe the poor and hungry. Your art will not stop disease and famine. And yet you pretend you do the world a greater good? What a sad, shallow life it must be, to live in the shadow of your own ego. Science, now that is the answer. Any problems humanity faces, we can solve with formulas. Equations and algorithms. If it were not for science, we’d still be living in mud huts and waging wars with rocks and slings.”

The knife in Pickman’s hands stopped dancing. His fingers whitened as they curled around it’s grip. “Perhaps this discussion best saved until later,” he said. “It seems my guests have no patience for it.”

“Enough of this.” Nate said, teetering on the verge of letting water stain his eyes. “You’ve both killed innocent people. Now you’re going to answer for it.” He found Pickman’s head in his scope and steadied on those thin, cunning lips snarling like a mutant hound. Nate steadied his breathing. All his actions over the past few weeks, all the decisions and bad choices came down to this. Now was the time to make it right.

“Let’s not forget that  _ you _ are no more innocent than us, Nate,” Lorenzo said with a low growl in his voice. “You and Pickman are the same in my eyes. You must be insane to deny it.”

“The same?” Pickman said, the indignance sounding painfully hoarse in his throat. “Insane, he may be.” He turned to address Nate. “My friend, you  _ are _ hopelessly lost in the archaic devices of  _ ethics _ and  _ morals _ , two things that no longer hold meaning in this world, and have little hope for return. Lorenzo, you believe the science that destroyed this world can somehow bring it back to it’s former glory. Do those concepts not  _ reek _ of insanity? Of course, who am I to say? I believe that I can single-handedly revive art in this barbaric world. It’s insane, Nate. I won’t deny it. We go day in and day out, believing in and fighting for the same things we did yesterday, even though we know there is no hope. True madness.” He paused. “But, at least I do not subject myself to the blind worship of science.” 

“You worship  _ yourself _ , Pickman!” Lorenzo shouted.

“You’re all mad!” Nick yelled, stepping away from the two psychopaths cautiously.

Everything happened at once. Pickman lunged at Lorenzo, leading with his knife. Startled, Nate fired two shots, the gun jumping wildly in his hands. They settled into the floorboards. Nick found cover behind a brick wall behind him. Nate, stood out in the open, watched as Lorenzo swam out of Pickman’s strike and, instead of firing on his attacker, aimed for him. Nate ducked as three loud cracks rang the room, followed by three  _ whizzing _ noises just above his head. A collapsing behind him. Then with a force strong as a yao guai, Pickman shoved Lorenzo back against the wall with a  _ thud _ .

“Nate, I’m hit!” Nick shouted from a slumped over position behind the wall. He opened fire with his pistol without prejudice. Lorenzo ducked and pressed against the wall, teeth clenching in anger and adrenaline. Pickman lunged to the ground, dodging the gunfire. When he stood up and searched around, his eyes locked on Nate. In return, Nate’s eyes almost seemed to be trembling.

Pickman charged. The knife poised in his white-knuckled grasp glistened in the light as he ran with the speed and ferocity of a Yao Guai. A smile twisted his face into something terrifying--something akin to a feral ghoul, or more closely, to that evil, sardonic grin of a deathclaw. Paralyzed with fear, Nate tried to backpedal, but instead tripped and fell on his back. In that moment, Pickman lunged. Nate, sweat drenching his face and his trigger finger, squeezed off three rounds at the man.

A wet, spongy  _ plop _ sounded. With a pained expression on his face (perhaps the first time Nate saw anything other than an unsettling smile there), Pickman collapsed, facedown, buried at Nate’s knees. His knife clanged on the ground nearby. Not used to having psychopaths collapse on his body, Nate screamed and tried to shove away frantically. Only when a few moments passed did he realize that the body did not move. He stopped struggling and sat up, wide eyes beating down in laborious inspection. No breathing, no movement, nothing. He did not see where the bullets landed, but the way Pickman fell made it look as though they had found their mark. And for a moment, Nate thought he was dead.

But then Pickman laughed. A pained, angered laugh. “Nate, there’s something you should know.” He raised his head, and a grizzly, vicious snarl wrapped over his normally cool complexion. He crawled, like a beast, up Nate’s torso, collecting his knife in the process. His right eye did not exist. Blood trailed in it’s wake. Holes sprung from his neck and forehead.

Pickman’s breath warmed Nate’s thigh’s. The Vault Dweller tried to shake him off even more frantically than before, to no avail. Nate thought he should already be dead, why don’t I feel the blade, why am I still here, oh God don’t let him torture me and paint me and kill me  _ oh God _ .

Pickman dragged his way up, now nose to nose with Nate, and then the cool press of steel, not cutting, just settling, kissed his neck. There it sat, and all the world slowed to a halt. Blood dripped from Pickman’s non-eye and other new orifices to Nate’s face. His tangy, unruly breath filled his lungs with terror.

“I’m type O, you know,” Pickman said, braying with pain and racking his lungs with a terrible, stertorous hack, as if it were cruelly ironic. He looked into Nate’s eyes vengefully, as if proclaiming a catharsis to a long-despised ex-lover. The knife pressed hard against his neck. “You and I, we’re not so different. Where it matters, on the inside, no, no. We’re insane, Nate.  _ We’re all insane where it counts. _ ”

_ “No! _ ” Nate shouted. Then a deafening  _ BAM _ rung his eardrums. Warm liquids against his neck. A silent ringing in his ears blocked out everything else.

Then a silent light.

***

“Come on, Nate. Get up!”

Nate’s eyes creaked open. Sunlight crashed down on his fragile irises and caused him to wince them shut. Next thing he knew, someone was sitting him up against a wall. His mind jostled around as much as his caretaker jostled him around. No thoughts came clearly, no explanation as to where he was or why. The lines of reality and drowsiness blurred together as he kept his eyes shut.

“You’re breathing, that’s good. There was some heavy blood loss from your neck, but don’t worry. I fixed you up. Some night, huh?”

Nate drowsily raised his hand to his neck. Now that he thought about it, there was a sharp, burning pain in his neck. It felt like a large gash had been there, flapping open like a flag without wind. Words slipped out his mouth like water through fingers. “Who...where am…Pickman, Lorenzo...” he rubbed his forehead. An awful headache plagued him.

“Shh, take it easy. You’re out in the street, but don’t worry, it’s safe. Your friend, the synth, he’s here with you, but he’s still passed out.”

“N-Nick…”

“You lost a lot of blood from that wound. It seemed your attacker managed to get one last slash on you before, well...anyways. Our blood types are compatible. My transfusion saved your life.”

Nate felt his head swirling and his mind drifting back into the blissful trance of sleep. “Thank...you…”

“I must be going. You’re wound is stabilized, don’t worry.” A momentary silence as Nate’s head throbbed. “What’s more, you’ll live. Yes, you’ll suffer dearly, but you’ll live. It’s amazing to survive such madness as you have. I wonder how much more you could’ve taken before it took you.” There was silence for a moment. “Ethics and morality, they’re not insane. They’re all we have to cling to anymore. The only thing truly separating us from the barbarians. It may seem like a lonely battle, but it’s the only one worth fighting. I find this... _ endearing _ about you.” A gentle clacking noise, as if something was being set on the ground. “Good day.” The low hum of the voice was replaced with the gradual diminuendo of it’s footsteps. Soon, the eerie silence of flustering litter off the pavement filled the streets.

Silent winds carried Nate back to sleep.

***

When he woke, the sun was setting and long shadows swallowed the streets. His headache swelled, his breathing came slowly, but he felt his skin and his face and realized he was alive.  His mind still felt that it floated around in a basin of water inside his skull. Movements groggy and pained ached in his bones as Nate struggled to stand up. The gash on his neck hurt incredibly, but it felt cared for. Yes, his body flushed with red pain, but he was indeed breathing. There was a wordless joy in that.

To his left sat Nick, eyes closed and apparently not functioning. Nate stumbled over to him. The synth did not seem to be alive, but it was hard to tell, considering he did not have to breathe. Nate shook him gently, hoping to wake him from whatever synth-coma he had disappeared into. No response came. Exhausted and struggling, Nate collapsed next to him. The street swirled around him, and perhaps Nate would have slipped into sleep once again had he not looked to his side.

Sitting between Nate and Nick on the sidewalk was a small box. Curious, Nate picked it up and looked it over and opened it up. Inside was a syringe. Red liquid slushed around in it’s vial, and a note was tied to it with string. Unfolding the paper, he read it’s contents.

_ This serum is flawless, the most undiluted form to date. One injection will give you immortality forever. Your blood will become what Jack made mine.  _ Nate flipped the paper over.  _ I am ashamed of who I have become. You are the best candidate for humanity’s future, I believe. Use this serum to free us from these dark times. Good luck. Don’t look for me. _

The syringe suddenly felt very heavy. Though it looked no different than any stimpak (aside from the blood colored fluid inside), it took on an aspect of magnificence as he realized it’s implications.  _ Immortal life, and all I have to do is inject it. The pinnacle of medical science. The Fountain of Youth, in my hands.  _ Nate felt helpless as he watched his own hand pull his shirtsleeve up and prepare a vein. His mind raced with the concept, ideas rushing back and forth like they were flying in a hurricane. The syringe, trapped in his fist, tapped it’s pointed needle against his skin.

But then he stopped.

A moment of hesitation stole him from the glamor of the moment. A breathless, clouding dread filled him, and now the promise of the needle hung before him. What does one do with an eternity of life in a world such as this? What is the end goal when there is no end? Would ethics and morality still concern him lifetimes into the future? Only so much time would pass before the standard procedures of living outlived their appeal. Then what?   _ Why, it’d enough to drive one insane. _

__ Across the street, the Charles River flowed before them. Nate threw the syringe. For a moment, he regretted the decision. The sight of it glittering through the air filled him with a longing to snatch it back into his chest and gain it’s power. And then he heard the plop as it landed in it’s current, carrying it to the riverbed and eventually out to sea, and the urge relaxed. Nate felt strangely at peace. He even smiled for half a second.

The sun dwindled over the city, every minute a tick closer to darkness. It took admirable strength, but Nate managed to stand up again and, with more desperation than before, shook Nick. “Nick...Nick, wake up…”

Orange eyes appeared in the dark. They immediately found Nate before them. “Nate, we’re alive.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just shot up a little,” Nick said, smiling. “Can’t say the same for Pickman.”

“You saw him die?”

“I shot him myself. In the head, moments before fainting. Though I saw him drive the blade across your neck in that last second. I thought you were certainly dead. Lorenzo, on the other hand...well, I don’t know what happened to him.”

A wave of relief, on par with giddiness, swept Nate. While Nick seemed disappointed, the excitement Nate felt was still nearly palpable, present. Nick still smiled modestly. “We did a good thing today.”

“We did. At least Pickman won’t be painting any longer.” Nate extended his hand. “C’mon, it’s getting late. Let’s get back to the diamond.”

Nick took his hand and stood up. Pavement clacked under their feet as they made way through the streets. While they feared the peril of raiders, mutants, and everything else that the city of Boston had to throw at them, their stride was longer, more confident. One less madman hid among the shadows.


End file.
